


larger than life

by whiplash



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: (And Not Any Island But Bird Shit Island), BAMF!Snart, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Broken Bones, Captain Cold To The Rescue, Desert Island Fic, Gen, Hypothermia, Kendra Whump, PTSD, Ray Whump, Sara Whump, Snart's Sock, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:23:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5982742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Len's going to have to update his resume. (Each chapter's a stand-alone. Open for prompts.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As there's no kink meme, I have to write this crap with zero justification. This is a sad state of affairs, people.
> 
> Anyway, here we go. If there had been a prompt, it would probably have read something along the lines of: "Len's no hero, but that doesn't means he's gonna let his new dumbass crew die on him either." 
> 
> First up's Ray, aka the incredible shrinking schmuck.

**handcuffed together in the middle of a snowstorm**

“Sit still,” Snart orders.

He’s tugged off his gloves with his teeth and now he’s scowling down at their hands as he works on the handcuffs binding them together. The cold’s not doing his dexterity any favors though. He moves slowly, stopping from time to time to flex his fingers. In fact, the cold’s not doing any of them any favors. Ray’s _everything_ aches. He’s no stranger to snow, but he finds that it’s one thing to face sub-zero temperatures while wearing weather-appropriate gear and quite another to get exposed to arctic winds while in formal wear.

The snow bank they’re huddled up against offers some protection, but there’s nothing approaching proper shelter in sight. Nothing but snow, snow and, oh yeah, more snow. Ray’s already pulled his knees up against his chest in an attempt to keep warm but that doesn’t stop his teeth from chattering or his muscles from quickly contracting in an attempt to generate heat. 

“Raymond,” Snart warns. His lips have turned blue and his fingers keep slipping, the sharp metal pick scraping against Ray’s wrists. A few beads of blood have appeared along one of the scratches, but Ray can’t feel it. At least the cold’s good for something…

“I’m not shivering on p-purpose,” he feels compelled to point out. “It’s an involuntary survival m-mechanism. If I stop, I'll die.”

“Yes,” Snart agrees. “But it’ll be slow and painless. Unlike-“

His voice cuts off as he drops the improvised lock pick into the snow. By the time Snart finds it again, his hands have clearly suffered from the exposure. From the look of it, he’s having problems straightening out his fingers and they’re shaking so badly that Ray can’t imagine that the lock pick will do them much good. Before Ray gets a chance to advise him otherwise, Snart cups his free hand over his mouth to blow on the skin.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Ray mutters. Snart might not be wearing his unfashionable parka but, unlike Ray, he had started out on their little impromptu adventure wearing a top-coat and pair of leather gloves. Out of the two of them, he’s the one better equipped to handle the weather. But that still won’t keep him from losing a hand to frostbite if he’s not careful.

“Wet skin’s more s-susceptible to the cold,” Ray explains, even though Snart hasn’t asked him to elaborate. The very act of speaking allows the frigid air to find its way into Ray’s lungs, causing them to ache as well. Taking the wind into account, the temperature must be well below minus twenty degrees Fahrenheit. Even Ray’s _eyeballs_ hurt. If it wasn’t so painful, it would be ridiculous.

"I don't mind the cold," Snart drawls, somehow managing to keep a straight face. If Felicity was here, she'd call him out on being a big, fat liar. Ray _misses_ Felicity.

“You’re risking frostbite,” he stubbornly continues. Partly because, well, it’s a relevant fact, isn’t it? It’s something that Snart should be made aware of, so that he can adjust his behavior accordingly. But also because, if Ray stops speaking, there’ll be nothing to listen to but the sound of the howling wind and that little voice in the back of his head that keeps repeating that he’s doomed to die without having accomplished anything.

“Guess you c-could always change your name t-to Captain Hook,” he adds, regretting his words as he catches a look at Snart’s expression. Last time the man had looked at Ray like that, Ray had ended up getting punched in the nose. Inching away as far as their joined wrists will let them, he hurriedly tags on: “Place your hand on your n-neck instead, just under your collar. The skin t-there should be w-warm and dry. Let’s face it, b-buddy, you couldn’t pick your nose like t-that, never mind t-that lock.”

Snart looks like he's about to protest but, after staring down at his useless claw hand for a moment, he obeys. It leaves him two hands down, which apparently means that he's finally about to cut himself some slack. He shifts so that they're side by side then sinks down in the snow. His shoulder’s almost warm where it presses against Ray’s. That doesn’t even begin to make up for how the wind’s suddenly blowing snow straight into Ray's face though. The way that Snart had been kneeling over him earlier must have been blocking the worst of the barrage.

They sit in silence, shivering and blinking snow out of their eyes while they wait for Snart’s fingers to thaw or hypothermia to kill them. Unfortunately, the latter seems by far the most likely outcome. On the bright side, Ray reflects, there's no way that Savage's men are going to be able to track them through the snow storm. Although, of course, that also means that the chance of the team finding find them's equally low.

He wonders, briefly, if Oliver would be any good in an arctic climate. Which leads him to think about Felicity. She’s going to be so pissed at him for dying again.

“This sucks,” he says, his voice slurred as his mouth refuses to cooperate. “I’m g-gonna die… in a snowstorm… cuffed to a supervillain known as C-Captain Cold. And m-my only legacy will be t-that my death’s the set-up of a d-dozen bad j-jokes.”

Snart doesn’t dignify that with an answer so, giving conversation up as a lost cause, Ray leans back. He’s not aware of making the call to close his eyes, but once he realizes what’s happened he can’t see the point in prying them open. The snow bank’s cold behind him and he can’t feel his feet. There’s something warm and solid pressing up against his shoulder though. He curls up against it, his body too cold to relax but his mind beginning to drift.

“Raymond!”

He startles awake. Snart’s patting roughly at his cheeks, brushing snow away from Ray’s face.

“Stay awake,” he orders.

“N-not the b-boss of me,” Ray manages and Snart twists his lips into something ugly.

“If you fall asleep on me,” he says, voice as chilling as the wind, “I’ll cut off your hand, steal your clothes and walk out of here. Don’t worry though, _buddy_ , I’ll make sure to tell everyone that you died an appropriately heroic death.”

Ray considers the threat for a moment, blinking up at Snart’s blurry face.

“Nah,” he says after a while. “If you were g-gonna do that, you would h-have already. T-too late now.”

For a moment he's sure that Snart will punch but instead the man just chuckles.

“True,” he admits. “So, let me tell you about plan B.”

xxx

Ray will never remember much about plan B.

Some parts of it stay with him though, infiltrating his dreams long after the team pulls off yet another miraculous rescue and he wakes up safe and sound in medbay. Like the scratchy weight of Snart’s coat as it covered him. The strange lack of awkwardness, even as Ray had sluggishly realized that he was all but sitting on another man’s lap. And, perhaps, most of all, the sound of Snart’s steady voice as the man began talking, chasing away that dreaded silence and giving Ray something to hold onto as darkness fell. 

“You saved my life,” Ray tells Snart a few days after their rescue. The man’s playing cards with Rory. The two of them have been joined at the hip since Snart’s release from medbay. If it wasn’t for Rory being a pyromaniac with crazy eyes and violent tendencies, his dedication to his friend might have been touching. 

“Guess you owe me,” Snart says, glancing up from the cards to smirk at him.

And, all right. Fair enough. Ray can work with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kendra's up. Thanks to **JayEz** for the prompt! :)

**hiking out of the wilderness with a broken limb**

Kendra spirals down from the sky, eyes wide open and heart pounding with fear and rage.

Everything’s happening too fast. The world’s too loud. Too bright. She doesn’t want to die like this. Not with Savage still alive. Not with Carter and her son unavenged. The ground comes rushing against her and she screams, the sound shrill and filled with frustration. Pieces of a prayer –the words soaked with ritual and mystery, the very language older than the pyramids and each syllable heavy with power – flashes through her mind.

Then she crashes against the pines and everything goes black.

xxx

She whines, curling in on herself as consciousness returns. It’s impossible to tell how much time has passed but when she finally manages to open her eyes the sun has set and the world’s cast in shadows. She listens but hears nothing but the harsh sound of her own breathing and the soft rustling in the bushes. Her ear's empty. The comlink must have fallen out when she landed.

An attempt to roll onto her back has her biting down on the insides of her mouth. Her wings, they’re still _out_. And the left one hurts. Kendra twists her neck, trying to get a peek of the damage. As soon as she does, she’s forced to swallow down bile. It’s broken, an open fracture, with splintered bone sticking out through her skin. She sucks in some air through her nose, trying to clear her mind, only for the rolling nausea to get the better of her.

After she’s done emptying her belly she crawls away from the mess, her wings dragging behind her. She tries to withdraw them but it doesn’t work. Staring down at her hands she finds that her claws are still out as well. The blood staining them triggers her memory.

She had ripped one of Savage’s men away from Sarah. He’d been heavy enough that Kendra had struggled to keep in the air, her wings flapping awkwardly. She’d dropped him back down, rejoicing at his pained scream as she let an air current carry her high enough to get a good aerial view of the battle below her.

Sarah had been back on her feet again, her hair a blonde halo as she swung her staff. Firestorm had swooshed right past Kendra, flashing her a cheeky grin as he left behind a trail of heat and sparks. On the ground, near the side of the cliff, Captain Cold and Heatwave had fought back to back, taking down Savage’s men with fire and frost. And Hunter, he'd still been on the Waverider, his voice sharp and insistent over the comlink. But then what?

Kendra tries to remember, but everything’s hazy. Something had struck her, hadn't it? She'd been stabbed. No, _shot_. She scratches at her neck -- forgetting about the claws until she accidentally draws blood -- and dislodges a dart with an empty vial attached to it. It takes a moment for the dots to connect. When they finally do she finds herself stuck between outrage and disbelief. Those fuckers had shot her out of the sky with a tranquilizer dart, as if Kendra was the main star in a wildlife documentary.

The laughter bubbles up, forcing its way through her tight throat and past her clenched teeth. Her shoulders and wings shake with it, sending spikes of fire through her body, but still she can’t stop laughing. She wipes at her eyes, careful to keep the claws tucked away lest she cut herself again. Because that’s her life now. Claws and wings. Fighting evil henchmen in the Swiss Alps. _Tranquilizer darts._

And to think that just a few months ago she’d still been a barista.

"Care to share the joke?"

Kendra jerks at the unexpected sound, cursing herself for losing track of her surroundings. Her wings draw up as she arches her back and she claws at the ground, ripping up clumps of dirt and moss. She might be down, but she’s not defenseless. Then she makes out the shape by the trees, recognizing the puffy parka at once. She follows her team-mate with her eyes as he clears the trees and makes his way over. Cisco’s cold gun dangles in the man’s hand and those stupid goggles hang around his neck like some Asian boy band fashion accessory. As he comes closer still she can make out the blooming bruise over his jaw.

“You’re hurt,” she says, only for him to give her a strange look.

“Had worse,” he assures her, sounding distracted as he narrows his eyes and studies her carefully. It’s not the first time that Kendra’s had a man stare so brazenly at her – before she started working at CC Jitters she’d worked at bar for two terrible months before she’d kneed a particularly handsy customer in the balls – and she's usually the first one to call out the pervs on their bullshit. But she’s seen Cold stare just as intently at his partner in crime whenever Rory got himself hurt. (Which he did with alarming frequency.)

Those narrowed eyes seem to take it all in: the dart on the ground, the broken wing, the way she can’t quite bring herself to stand even though it means staring up at him. Pursing his lips, he holsters his gun and kneels down next to her.

“Rough landing, I take it.”

“Had worse,” she lies. Cold grins then, the skin around his eyes crinkling with honest amusement. “Is everyone all right?”

“They will be once I let them know that I’ve found their lost fledgling.”

She rolls her eyes at his word choice then shamelessly eavesdrops as he radios in.

“Hunter says the forest’s too dense for the Waverider to land here,” Cold summarizes for her. “There’s a clearing nearby though. Flying's clearly out of the question, but how do you feel about footing it?”

The world’s less hazy now and she hopes that means that the drug’s starting to wear off. But her wing hurts and the thought of getting on her feet -- each step causing the bones to scrape together or maybe rip even further through her skin -- causes her stomach to churn again.

"How far is it?" she asks, pleased when her voice comes out steady.

"One point three miles," he answers. There's an uncharacteristic softness in his voice. A certain lack of theatrics. Like perhaps he knows that she's not feeling half as brave as she acts.

She considers his answer. Kendra used to go on three-mile runs in the morning. One point three miles should be nothing. Yet the thought fills her with dread and she stares down at the ground, unwilling to let Cold read her like an open book again.

"Let's go," she mutters, about to force herself onto her feet only to come to an halt as Cold's fingers brush against her elbow.

“This will hurt,” he warns just as his hand travels up her arm and towards her wings. It’s strange to feel his hands against her feathers and, although it forces her to stare straight at her injury, she finds herself watching his every move intently. He might be armed, but she’s pretty sure her claws could rip his face in two.

The sight of the bone sticking out through her skin’s still jarring, but now that the initial shock has passed it's more surreal than anything else. She can almost convince herself that it’s not her wing. Not her bones. Not her skin. It doesn’t make things any less surreal when Cold steps away from her, unzips his coat and shrugs it off. He’s wearing a sweater underneath which he pulls over his head to reveal a plain white t-shirt. Cold strips out of the t-shirt too, each movement precise and economical.

“What are you doing?” she asks as soon as she finds her voice.

“Striptease,” he deadpans, then answers her question through shredding his t-shirt into strips. She stares at him, her jaw clenching and her entire body tensing up as if it knows what’s to come. Maybe it does. Maybe this isn't the first time she's broken her wing. When Cold kneels down again she squeezes her eyes shut, focusing on breathing as he covers the wound.

When he's done, she drags herself to her feet. She's light headed and she _hurts_. Not just the wing, but every part of her throbs with a mix of dull and sharp pains. Her claws dig into the palms of her hands and she chews on the inside of her mouth again. The world spins and she might have fallen if not for Cold’s hand on her arm.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, his voice soft and close to her ear, “Mick assures me that Hunter keeps the medbay stocked with the good drugs.”

“That… sounds good, actually,” she admits then turns her head to spit out a mouthful of blood. It’s not very ladylike, but to her surprise Cold doesn't comment. 

“Don’t fall,” he orders instead. Well, cautions her maybe. Though it sure sounds like an order. He keeps his hand on her, but she doesn’t allow him to take any of her weight. Kendra’s not a damsel in distress. He’s not her knight in white armor.

Only the hill’s steep and her wings unwieldy. When a branch slams into the broken wing, she can't keep herself from crying out in surprise and pain. For a moment, her vision blacks out and her knees give out underneath her. She braces for a fall, only for Cold to catch her again.

“Careful, Mighty Eagle,” he says.

“Is that an Angry Birds reference?” she demands, blinking away tears from her eyes. Cold doesn’t reply but the way his lips twist makes the answer clear enough.  

“Nerd,” she accuses, leaning heavily against him as they continue their slow trek. He's stronger than he looks and manages to find a way to support her weight without jarring her wing. Together they stumble towards the ship.

It’s not until far later that she realizes that he never denied the nerd accusation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it’s Sara’s turn. Thank you **hufflepirate** for the prompt “stranded at sea” which inspired the story :)

**stuck on a deserted island**

Sara wakes to the scent of salt and the sound of waves. Even after all these years, the combination sets off alarms in her head. She stays still, steadying her racing heart and keeping her eyes shut as she focuses her other senses. After a few heartbeats she picks up on another sound. Breathing, she concludes. And not her own.

The fierce, blood-hungry part of her revels at the information. Though she can’t remember any details it’s clear that something’s wrong. She’s been taken away from familiar surroundings and abandoned in hell. She’s been hurt. This is her chance to pay her attacker back. Another part of her – the part of her that Nyssa had nurtured in the hopes that it would grow and prosper – implores her to act with caution. It reminds her that she’s lacking vital information and advises her that she’s best off waiting. Let her enemy come to her. So, through sheer will, Sara forces her body to remain slack and her breath to stay even.

Taking stock of her body she finds it sore in a way that suggests bumps and bruises but not broken bones or damaged organs. She’s been laid out on her side, in an approximation of the recovery position. The parts of her which have been resting against the hard ground feel cold and damp while the rest of her’s too hot. Her skin itches in a way that’s both familiar and alarming. Dried ocean salt and too much exposure to a merciless sun. Her memory’s still hazy but, as she lays there, flashes of the past day return to her.

A boat in the middle of the Pacific. Gunfire. Then a real fire.  No storm though.

_Not this time._

“You’ve either worked it out by now or you hit your head harder than I thought,” a familiar voice snarks. “Either way, it’s time to stop playing possum, Sara.”

She pries her eyes open. The sky’s blue above her and the sun’s blazing hot and bright.

“Tell me we’re not stranded on a deserted island,” she says, her voice so hoarse that she barely recognizes it. Squinting, she makes out part of the man sitting beside her; bare feet, ridiculously pale calves and trousers rolled up to his knees.

“We’re not stranded on a deserted island,” Leonard Snart obediently parrots.

“ _Fuck._ ”

“It’s actually not an island as much as it’s a rock,” he continues in a contemplative voice. “A rock, covered in bird shit, in the middle of the ocean.”

Sara struggles to sit, blinking in the bright light as she waits for the world to stop spinning. Despite the heat she finds that she’s shivering. Shielding her eyes from the light, she takes in her surroundings. Snart’s description’s all too accurate. The rock they’d landed on makes Lian Yu look like a hotel resort. There are no trees, no grass, no shelter. Just rocks and shit. Oh, and also some feathers glued to the rock with the shit.

“Fuck,” she repeats, reluctantly awestruck by their predicament. 

“Not quite what the brochures promised,” Snart agrees. “I think we should ask for a refund.”

Sara pushes away all thoughts of the past and forces herself to think about survival. To focus on what they have and what they need.

“Do you have your comlink?” she demands only for Snart to shake his head. “What about your cold gun?”

“What I have,” he answers, “is my charming personality and the beginning of a nasty sunburn. Also rocks and a metric ton of bird shit. I have the utmost respect for you and the League of Assassins, Sara, but I very much doubt you’re gonna be able to Macgyver us away from here with that supply list.”

She doesn’t bother acknowledging the truth in that. Instead she leans forward, resting her arms on her knees and her forehead on her arms. It makes her all too aware of the fact that she reeks but at least it blocks out the sight of the endless blue ocean. Squeezing her eyes shut she tries to work out just how badly they’re screwed.

Three days without water. Three weeks without food.

“Are there any birds?” she asks without lifting her head.

“Not even a tiny little chick,” Snart answers. “Present company excluded, of course.”

She raises one hand, folding down all fingers but the middle one and he laughs. It’s raspy but honest. And, yeah, all right. Out of all the people she could be stranded with, this guy’s not the worst possible option. He’s no Oliver, that’s true, but he’s still a survivor. Not bad looking either, when he’s not covered in bird shit and turning as pink as a lobster.

“Pity,” she says, thinking back to the birds. They could have provided both liquid and food. Following her line of thought, Snart makes a sound so disgusted that it’s her turn to laugh. It’s a surprised sound, but just as honest as his has been.

“I’m a city boy,” he defends himself. “Sushi, sure, or a medium rare steak. I draw the line at drinking the blood of small sea birds though.”

“I had no idea you were so squeamish, Cold,” she says, still smiling a little. "Do you feel the same way about cannibalism?”

He snorts.

“Time will tell.”

“The others will find us before then,” she says. “They’ll be looking for us.”

The words taste bad in her mouth. _They’ll be looking for me._ How many times had she told herself that while floating in the ocean after the Gambit wrecked? While locked up in the ship with Ivo? While stranded on the island? Sara finds herself wishing that she could block out the sound of the waves. If Snart wasn’t there she would press her fingers into her ears like a child. Exhaling slowly, she tries to fill her mind with Nyssa’s voice instead. Tries to become _Ta-er Al-Safar._ It’s harder than it should be. Harder than it would have been before she agreed to join Hunter’s crew or became part of Oliver’s crusade in Starling city. She wants to fall back on her training, the endless sparring and the hard-won lessons. There had been no place for weakness then. There’s no place for weakness now.

The waves crash against the sharp rocks. The air reeks. Not just of salt, but of bird shit too. In the heat it mingles with the stench of her own acrid fear. Bile rises in her throat and, scrabbling away from Snart, she empties her stomach. She spits and coughs as ocean water spills out of her.

“That would be the concussion,” Snart drawls. “I’d offer to hold your hair but, well, not quite my style.”

If he tried to touch her right now she’d break his hand. And then his face for good measure. But that goes unsaid, she imagines. Sara crawls away from the mess, eyeing the edge of the water with a frown. She should wipe her face. Wash away the bird shit from her hands. But for some reason she’s frozen in place, well away from where the ocean licks the rocks.

Snart solves the problem for her by dipping one of his discarded socks into the water and tossing it in her direction. Her right hand shoots up to catch it, fat drops of water trailing down her wrist as her fingers squeeze the wet material too hard.

“Gross,” she tells him even as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and then her hands with the sock. She considers throwing the sock back but doesn’t. Snart might not be the hair-holding type but someone obviously went through the trouble of fishing her out of the ocean and placing her in the recovery position. There’s a debt owed here.

“So,” he says, “as you’re the expert, Sara, please do tell. What _exactly_ does one do for fun on a desert island?”

“Human experimentation. Treasure hunts. Naval warfare. Take your pick.”

“Well, I suppose I’m not opposed to treasure hunts,” he answers. But instead they end up playing “I Spy” until the sun sets. And if Snart keeps winning it’s only because he’s an incorrigible cheat.

xxx

They get rescued before dawn on the second day. Sara limps onto the jumpship, ignoring Ray’s offer of a helping hand. Mick calls them out on their matching sunburns, laughing roughly as Snart squirms away from the heavy hand clapping his shoulder. Stein’s nose wrinkles as they pass him, but he valiantly doesn’t comment on the stink.

“Bird shit,” Sara still explains as she sinks down into a free seat.

“Sun-baked bird shit,” Snart elaborates.

As their eyes meet, they grin at each other.

xxx

Two days later she returns the sock. It’s been washed clean of blood, salt and bird shit but it’s still missing its mate. Also, it’s all but worn through in the heel. Either Snart needs a pedicure or he’s too cheap to buy new socks.

To his credit, he accepts the sock without blinking.

**Author's Note:**

> Open for prompts :-)


End file.
